


Wrapped in Piano Strings

by AmberRunnel



Series: darker days of the dream smp [8]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Abuse, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death and Aftermath, I'm sorry., Manipulative Relationship, Reference/Implied Abuse, Trauma, Villain Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-16 00:40:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29816823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmberRunnel/pseuds/AmberRunnel
Summary: Now I still sleep beneath your floor,My ghost just tries to keep you warmI've seen the end, I've lost the warOne day, you'll join me here just like the rest.-|-Tommy doesn't die easily.But what comes after - seeing everything he left behind - that's worse, and forever's a long time to be lonely.
Relationships: Clay | Dream & TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Sam | Awesamdude & TommyInnit, Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit
Series: darker days of the dream smp [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2039249
Comments: 8
Kudos: 118





	Wrapped in Piano Strings

It was a brutal way to die.

Dream moved as methodically and precisely as ever, hooking his arm around Tommy’s chest to swing him and swinging him into the wall. Tommy’s head cracked across the obsidian and he fell to one knee, eyes dazed and gasping for air. “What are you doing?” he gasped, scrambling away from Dream.

“Beg for your life, Tommy,” Dream whispered, bringing his foot down on Tommy’s chest so he couldn’t get up. 

“Fuck you,” Tommy spat, glaring up at him. “You’re pathetic. You’d never kill me, I’m the only thing you’ve got left.” A grin split his face, and his teeth were tinged red with blood. “I’m gonna walk out of here and you’re going to  _ rot. _ ” 

Dream said nothing, and a strained laugh escaped Tommy’s mouth. “You know what I see when I look at you?” Tommy challenged, eyes wide with glee. “I see a pathetic, miserable liar whose server has slipped so far out of his grasp he can’t even accept it. All your talking and your lying about that fucking revival book— _ I’m not falling for it anymore. _ You can say you have all the power, all the control, all the _whatever_ , but I’m walking out of here and you aren’t.”

Dream struck him across the face.

Tommy yelped in pain, hand going to his eye. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” He shoved Dream’s foot off and scrambled to his feet. Dream didn’t answer, only stepped forward and punched him again, right in the stomach.

Tommy doubled over, gasping for breath as the air was sucked out of his chest. His knees hit the obsidian, and suddenly, he was back in Logstedshire again.  _ You know I don’t like it when you lie to me. _

Fury flooded his chest, and he punched Dream right back. Soon they were going at each other, Tommy fighting with everything he had with the sinking feel he had pushed Dream too far. Suddenly the man in front of him wasn’t broken and pathetic anymore, locked away in a prison forever—he was dangerous, he was ruthless, he’d snapped, he’d been close to killing Tubbo merely to break Tommy apart.

He was  _ Dream.  _ Somehow, Tommy had forgotten the blood he’d spilled already, even if too much of it had been Tommy’s own. It was too easy to see the friend he’d known from the start of the SMP, even if that version of Dream was long dead.

_ That Tommy isn’t dead. He’s still me, after all the fighting.  _ Young, naïve, and  _ scared.  _

It didn’t matter how hard he fought—Dream only needed a few solid blows to weaken him past the point of fighting back, seizing Tommy’s hair to keep him upright as Tommy clung desperately to his arm. Warm blood was dripping down Tommy’s face and into his eyes, trickling down his cheek like tears as he gasped for air. His voice was weak and strained when he pleaded, “stop, _please_ —”, but Dream didn’t let him go.

“You think I’m a liar?” Dream muttered into his ear, and Tommy flinched away from him. “That the book is fake, that I wouldn’t kill you?”

“You wouldn’t kill me,” Tommy echoed, but it was a plea far more than it was a jibe. His hands were trembling as he pulled at Dream’s arm, eyes welling with tears as his heart hammered in his chest. He might have called for Sam if he still had the strength to do it, but deep down, he knew it was pointless.

Sam had left him. 

Dream let Tommy slump to the floor, and Tommy didn’t even try to sit up. He only lay there, heaving for air, staring up at the crying obsidian glowing above his head in the dim light of the prison cell as he tried to calm down.

A  _ crack,  _ and agony exploded in Tommy’s side as Dream broke his ribs with one precise kick. A scream of pain tore at Tommy’s throat as black spots darkened his vision, but he was helpless to defend himself. “Please—” he gasped, but only a pained, choked cough left his mouth.

Dream knelt beside him, digging his knee into Tommy’s stomach so he couldn’t get up. “Do you still believe I’m not going to kill you?” he asked softly, but Tommy was crying too hard to answer.

“Sam!” Tommy cried, ignoring the pain that flared across his side. “Sam! Please!”

Dream shook his head. “Keep pleading, Tommy. No one’s listening.”

“Sam!” Tommy screamed with everything he had. “Phil! Wilbur! _Wilbur!_ ”

Silence. 

Tommy looked at Dream dead in the eyes of his mask, trying to bring back the Dream he’d known before the war and the conflict and the bloodshed that had split them apart. Maybe Dream would see it in Tommy’s eyes that— _ I’m still me. I’m still the trouble-maker you smiled at with exasperation when I stole stuff and caused petty problems. I’m still your friend. I’m still scared.  _

Dream’s grip tightened, and Tommy knew there was no point. 

Tommy broke down again, turning his head and closing his eyes so he didn’t have to look up at that god-forsaken mask. “I’ll kill you,” he sobbed. “I’ll get out of here and I’ll tell Sam and I’ll kill you.”

“Oh, Tommy,” Dream whispered, brushing his hand across Tommy’s face before clamping it around his throat. “You’re not getting out of here.”

Tommy tried to take a breath, and couldn’t. He pulled at Dream’s hands, but they wouldn’t give no matter how desperately he tried. He couldn't _breathe—_ he was in Logstedshire again, drowning, except this time it didn't stop. 

It was then it really struck him. 

He was going to die.

Tommy had imagined dying a lot of times, especially after Wilbur was gone. He’d sit on his bench and picture going out with a bang, a heroic sacrifice of sorts. Trading his life in for Tubbo’s maybe—any story that made accepting his probably death a little easier to deal with. He was sixteen—he shouldn’t be trying to come to terms with something like that so soon, and the stories helped. 

This, this wasn’t the story he wanted. Choked to death buried from the sun by layers and layers of blackstone and obsidian by Dream, who’d once been his friend before he’d been his enemy, his rival, his abuser— 

Not like this. Anything but this. 

_ "You want to be a hero, Tommy?" _ Techno had asked him. _"Then die like one."_

Maybe he would, after all. Theseus had died exiled and in disgrace. Tommy would be choked to death in a prison cell at the hands of his abuser, so close to closure he could feel it in his chest. 

_ “What’s dying like?”  _ Tommy had asked Ghostbur once, and the echo of his dead brother had hummed.  _ “I don’t know, I don’t remember.” _

A pause, and the ghost had sounded a little like Wilbur when he’d admitted,  _ “It’s lonely, actually. Dying, it’s like...you’re traveling down a long road, and then suddenly the road ends and you can’t see your family anymore.” _

As Tommy lay there, dying on the cold obsidian floor among the dripping of lava and crying obsidian, he wondered,  _ Is this when I have to say goodbye? _

Tommy didn’t want to die. He didn’t want to face the thought of never seeing Tubbo ever again, never again listening to his discs, never seeing home. It was so lonely it hurt, an ache in his chest that drowned out all the pain and the terror as Dream kept his hand pressed on Tommy’s throat, killing him bit by bit as he ran out of oxygen.

Dying hurt, and there was no coming back.

He couldn’t see or hear anything anymore. Just darkness, and the ghost of Tubbo’s laughter echoing in his head.

_ I’m sorry I’m not coming back,  _ Tommy tried to tell him. 

_ I’m sorry I wasn’t there to say goodbye. _

  
  


Tommy died quietly.

Dream watched his eyes close and felt his struggling stop, going limp as his head slumped to the side. Even then, Dream didn’t let him go, keeping a hand around Tommy’s throat as he brushed a strand of hair from Tommy’s face.

It took him a long time to step away, to escape the trance-like resolve that had watched Tommy die. The death message flared up, and some part of Dream expected life to return to Tommy’s eyes and for his injuries to heal. He’d sit up, eyes wide with shock. He’d call Dream a bitch and scream at him and beg Sam to let him out of the jail cell, and Dream would watch him with an exasperated look and cruel words simmering on his tongue.

Tommy looked peaceful there, lying on his side with strands of hair draping over his forehead. If Dream couldn’t see the blood coloring his shirt or the bruises staining the skin of his arms and neck, he could believe Tommy was merely sleeping. But when Tommy didn’t wake up when Dream brushed his thumb across his face, or even when Dream whispered his name, the realization settled heavily in Dream’s stomach. 

_ Dead. He’s dead. _

  
  


The death message flared up on Sam’s communicator, and his heart stopped.

His entire body went numb as his eyes traced the words over and over, dread settling in the pit of his stomach with so much weight he couldn’t breathe. Something cold settled in him, and Sam took off running for the prison lobby. He tore through the prison’s hallways faster than he thought possible, and he was already screaming Tommy’s name before the lava had drained.

He stepped off the platform with his ears ringing in the silence, kneeling by Tommy’s side as horror settled in his chest. The kid’s neck and arms were blotted with bruises, and red streaked down his face as if he’d cried blood. His skin was cold and lifeless, and he wasn’t breathing. His blood darkened the obsidian, bandana more red than green, head tucked in his arms like he was sleeping. 

“Tommy?” Sam pleaded, digging a splash potion of healing and breaking it on the ground beside him. When that didn’t work, he pulled out his only totem of undying and closed Tommy’s hands around it, praying for the best as his vision blurred with tears. “Tommy, come on. You have to wake up. You have to...” His voice trailed off as Tommy didn’t respond, and Sam shook his head in disbelief.  _ No. No, no, no.  _

“He’s dead,” Dream said quietly from where he stood on the other side of the cell, blood on his hands and mask. “He’s been dead for a while now.”

Sam ignored him, pulling Tommy up to a sitting position so he could check his pulse. Nothing. Just like there was no breath in his lungs, no life in his skin, just like Tommy’s blood was staining Sam’s hands as well as Dream’s.

“What did you do?” he whispered, almost imperceptibly. The sound carried in the silence of the cell, but Dream said nothing.

“What did you do?” Sam screamed, trident clutched in his hand as he stood up and turned on Dream.

Dream stayed quiet, hands by his side, head down. He didn’t move, even when Sam picked Tommy up and carried him out of the cell, not even as the lava flowed down and blocked him from view.

Sam walked through the prison halls with Tommy limp and bloodied in his arms, chest hollow and arms trembling. Every bruise on Tommy’s face and arms, every splotch of blood on his skin—

—all Sam’s fault. Tommy would never open his eyes again, he’d never laugh again, he’d never made crude jokes to break the tension when Sam led him through the prison. Sam Nook would never complete his task—the hotel would remain unfinished forever, and Tommy would never come back to it again.

Sam broke down before he got to the prison lobby, tears trickling down his face and sliding down his mask as he silently begged Tommy to wake up, to stir in his arms and grumble something incoherent and  _ live _ . 

Nothing. Tommy’s eyes were open and blank, and Sam couldn’t meet his empty gaze.

_ Dead, dead, dead. _

Dream had beaten Tommy to death, but his blood was on Sam’s hands.

Sam walked out of his prison still holding Tommy’s unmoving body, unable to look at the crowd summoned by the death message. Unable to look at Tubbo’s face as a desperate, choked, scream tore from his throat, unable to face Ranboo’s empty shock, unable to listen to Puffy’s disbelieving, _“No—”_

Tommy was dead.

  
  


Sam didn’t leave the prison lobby that night. He sat behind his desk and let every crumb of guilt, shame, horror, fury, grief overwhelm him until his body was trembling from it, until he was on the floor with his heart aching so badly he couldn’t breathe. For hours, he stayed that way, letting himself process it, letting himself accept it.

The lobby was quiet, noise dampened by the layers of obsidian, blackstone, and quartz. Sam took an uneven breath and exhaled, letting the grief ease, letting himself melt into the silence until he didn’t exist anymore.

In the emptiness, a quiet, broken voice:  _ “Sam?” _

Sam sat up, eyes flickering around the empty lobby. Tommy’s voice rung clear in his head, an echo that  _ had  _ to be real.

“Tommy?” Sam pleaded. “Tommy?”

Nothing.

Sam slumped back in his seat, hugging his arms to his chest. There was nothing there, he was hearing things.

_ “Sam, I begged you not to leave me.” _

Sam’s blood ran cold as Tommy’s voice, unsteady and  _ scared,  _ drifted across the empty room.

_ “You were supposed to keep me safe. I was screaming your name and you walked away.” _

Sam could still hear that scream as he’d walked away from the lava. He’d never forget it. “Tommy, I’m—I’m so sorry,” he begged.

_ “Do you know what he did to me when you were gone?”  _ Tommy whispered, and Sam shut his eyes tightly. Everything snapped inside him then, and a scream ripped from his throat as he tore his mask off and hurled it against the wall. When it didn’t break, he did it again, and again, and again, until there was nothing left but shards and pieces and  _ silence.  _

Sam would only hear him once more, quiet and accepting.

_ “Could you take care of Tubbo for me?” _

That was all. He’d never see Tommy ever again. 

  
  


Tommy woke up cold.

Everything was just darkness for a while, but not the scary kind. Not the unforgiving obsidian and lava light kind, just the comforting one.

He liked this darkness. It wasn’t so unbearable. But, as Tommy’s luck went, it didn’t last. Soon there was quiet movement behind his eyes, and sounds—rustling of trees, crickets chirping, footsteps. 

He blinked his eyes to clear them, and the world solidified around him. It was dark, stars glittering in the cloudless sky as a cold wind rustled the leaves of a familiar oak tree by his house.

Tommy sat up and found himself sitting on his bench. The jukebox was beside him, forever empty, and Tommy ran a ghostly hand across it. 

In the back of his mind, he knew it wasn’t real, none of it was and none of it would ever be again. But for now, he was on his bench, the wind cold against his skin, and he was home.

Mellohi started playing, ghostly notes floating through the empty air, and someone was crying. 

It wasn’t a quiet type of crying—it was the painful kind, choked and miserable. Tommy turned to the sound, in that weightless way all dreams were, and Tubbo was curled up against the bench beside him, face buried in his hands. His body wracked with sobs as he shivered, tears spilling onto his shirt as he held Tommy’s green bandana against his chest.

“Tubbo?” Tommy asked uncertainly. When his friend didn’t respond, he reached out to touch his shoulder.

His hand passed right through him. Tubbo, who was shivering so badly he could barely sob, whose eyes were red, whose cheeks were stained with tears, couldn’t feel the comfort of his hand anymore. Tommy’s heart broke right then as he tried to pull his friend into a hug, but he couldn’t, and he’d never be able to again.

Tommy stayed there all night, his ghost trying to keep Tubbo warm as they cried, each unable to reach the other.  _ I’m right here,  _ Tommy wanted to tell him.  _ I’m still here, I’ll always be. _

Deep down, Tommy knew it wasn’t true. He wasn’t sitting on his bench beside Tubbo, he wasn’t home, he hadn’t come back. Mellohi wasn’t floating through the air, the disc was still in his enderchest where it’d stay forever. 

The truth was—the truth was that Tommy had never left the cell.

_ Dying’s lonely,  _ Ghostbur had told him. 

Tommy knew that now. There was nothing there anymore. No closure, no warmth, no tearful goodbyes and promises to reunite. He’d had everything before, and now it was gone forever.

Forever was a long time to be lonely.


End file.
